


in the tongues of men or angels

by savage_starlight



Series: and you could have it all, my empire of dirt [5]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Aloysius Fogg/Annabelle (background), Established Relationship, Fluff, Found Family, Future-fic, Gift Fic, Ice Skating, M/M, Miriam Landisman/Arabella Whitlock (background), Post-Canon, This may literally be the fluffiest thing I've ever written, UnDeadwood Mini-series (Critical Role)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-30 23:47:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21436678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savage_starlight/pseuds/savage_starlight
Summary: Clayton doesn't believe in heaven. He doesn't need to.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Reverend Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Series: and you could have it all, my empire of dirt [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1531016
Comments: 30
Kudos: 121





	in the tongues of men or angels

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nevershootamockingbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevershootamockingbird/gifts).

> Howdy, y'all!!
> 
> This one's a bit shorter, and I know it's been a hot minute since I posted. Rest assured, that's not because I'm losing inspiration so much as it is that I have literally about sixteen fics I'm writing and the primary one is gonna be a looooooong bastard. So fret not, you're not free of me yet. (Hopefully that feels like a good thing???)
> 
> Anyway! This fic goes out to Maille, aka @nevershootamockingbird, who is an all around lovely human being who deserves all the fluff in the world. I don't think I've ever actually written something this fluffy this quick and without dipping into angst, so I'd say maybe pin that on the fact that she's such an incredible and good soul that it managed to infect me into writing something pleasant for once? Anyway, her writing is incredible, and if you haven't been reading her Undeadwood stuff you are hardcore missing out. 
> 
> The title of this fic is (weirdly enough) once again from the Bible, this time from Corinthians 13:1-3: "If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing." It seemed fitting, at least thematically.
> 
> Anyway, enough out of me. Thanks again to Maille for being an amazing person, to Maddie (@Baebadook) for giving me an amazing prompt to write this with, and to all y'all who keep reading these things. I hope you all enjoy this story as much as I enjoyed writing it, and I'll see y'all again soon. <3
> 
> (Also, IT'S ALMOST FRIDAY AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH)

Matthew might be crazy.

Clayton’s no coward. He’s looked down the barrel of an undead Wild Bill Hickock’s guns, faced off against snake monsters and drunks and every now and then someone with actual skill. He doesn’t shy away from challenges. He does, however, have a sense of self-preservation, and it’s currently screaming in his head as he watches Matthew strap ice skates onto his feet while a few feet away the others are doing the same.

As if he feels the dubious look Clayton’s giving him, Matthew looks up. “It’s easier than it looks, you know. Just takes a little practice.”

“I’m not worried about it needin’ practice,” Clayton grumbles, crossing his arms. “I’m just wonderin’ whose bright idea it was to walk around with knives on the bottom of their feet.”

“You ain’t supposed to be walkin’ in ‘em, Coffin,” Aloysius says, grinning impishly over the edge of a coffee cup. He’s politely bowed out from all of the nonsense on account of the weather making his already bad leg ache like a bastard, and while Clayton can’t quite blame him for that he’s not charitable enough to refrain from leveling a glare at the man. “Whole point is that you’re skatin’.”

“Thanks for that clarification, Aloysius,” Clayton says flatly, touching the brim of his hat with one specific finger. Aly starts cackling, and he turns his attention to Miriam, who is sitting right beside Bella and adjusting the laces on her skates with disconcerting ease. “Remind me why you’re in on this again? Thought you were the practical one.”

“A little adventure never hurt anyone,” Miriam says with a quirk of her lips. She stands and wobbles briefly, only for Aloysius to catch her with one hand.

“Easy there, sugar,” he says, flashing a winning smile. “Think you’re supposed to be saving the falling part for when you’re on the ice with Miss Bella.”

Bella walks toward them with a few quick steps, her movements every bit as graceful as they’d be if she were just walking in her typical boots. “The point is not to fall at all,” she says with a sly smile, “but I’ll catch you if it comes to that. Ready?”

“Bella, honey, I was born that way.” Miriam lets Arabella lead her away toward the lake, both of them balancing with an arm around each other’s waists, the warmth of their smiles enough to keep a house comfortable for weeks.

Clayton pulls his gaze away to look at Matthew and sees that he’s standing now, looking just as graceful as Bella even though he’s a hulk of a man balanced on two tiny blades. It’s a hell of a talent he has, that ability to make himself look sturdy and stable instead of scary as a fucking cannon. Clayton looks at him from beneath the brim of his hat and raises an eyebrow. “You off then?”

Matthew nods. “I will be shortly. Are you sure I can’t trouble you to come along?”

“I’ll be fine,” Clayton says. He tilts his head toward Aloysius. “Hate to deprive Mister Fogg of my company when we get along so well.”

His sarcasm earns him a rather impressive snort that would be insulting if it weren’t entirely reciprocated. “Clayton, you can deprive me any time,” Aloysius says, smiling like the cat that got the cream. “I got my own company I’m thinkin’ of pursuing,”

Clayton follows Aloysius gaze to look over his shoulder. He can just make out the familiar shape of Annabelle in the distance, her head thrown back in laughter and her arm looped through Katie’s. “Jesus,” he mutters without much heat, and looks back to where Matthew is standing, waiting patiently for an answer.

He still thinks they’re all crazy. In fact, he’s convinced of it. Trouble is, Clayton’s always been a bit crazy himself. He sighs, offers a quick look of disappointment to the heavens and whatever unholy force of nature has stolen the last of his wits, and nods. “Guess there’s worse ways to die.”

Matthew grins and reaches into the bag of skates he’d brought with him, retrieving the last pair of blades. Matthew clasps Clayton’s hands between his own when he passes them over, and Clayton swears that look on his face could melt every goddamn drop of this lake. “You’ll be fine, Clay,” he says, squeezing gently. “I’ll be right beside you if you need me.”

Clayton knows. “Always do,” he murmurs, and sits down to tie them on.

* * *

“Goddamn motherfucking son of a_ bitch.”_

Clayton’s on his ass again. He has fallen on his ass at least twenty-four times now, after which he stopped counting. He doesn’t think he’s even been on the ice for twenty-four minutes. Sitting on the side of the lake, this had seemed like a sketchy idea but not necessarily the worst one he could have agreed to, but as he picks himself up (again) and almost immediately falls ­(_again), _he’s re-evaluating his position.

Because he's a bastard who has lapped this lake backwards and stolen Arabella away from Miriam to swing her around twice now, Matthew is still on his feet like it's easy as breathing. He's standing before Clayton, looking down at him with his eyebrows raised, his face the picture of concern except for the way his lip wobbles with a barely restrained smile. From the sideline, Aloysius starts up a round of applause and when Clayton suggests he do something anatomically unlikely it breaks the dam and Matthew starts laughing, loud and deep and echoing across the lake.

“Glad my suffering is so hilarious to you,” Clayton mutters, holding his arms out in an attempt at balance as he glares at Matthew’s doubled-over figure. “Remind me why I’m doing this again?”

“Because you’re very brave,” Matthew manages eventually, straightening even as his shoulders still shake.

Clayton scoffs. “Very stupid, more like. How the hell are you doing so well at this?”

“Practice.”

“Practice,” Clayton echoes, the word flat with disbelief. “You kept falling over like this and instead of just stoppin’, your immediate response was to practise?”

“I suppose so, yes?”

“You’re fuckin’ crazy,” Clayton says, and then his feet start to slide from under him again even though he’s not even moving, what the _fuck._

Matthew catches him with ease and holds him like that, strong hands wrapped around Clayton’s biceps. They’re warm even through the gloves and layers of fabric, and Clayton’s chest twists in a funny way he doesn't like to think on. “Easy, Clay.”

“Nothin’ easy about this shit.” Clayton grips onto Matthew’s arms with both hands and looks at him from under the brim of his hat, long-since knocked crooked by his repeated acrobatic failures. He wonders, briefly, if he can ask real nice and get out of this, but then his pride catches up to him and he bites down on the impulse.

“I can help, if you want,” Matthew says, low enough to keep the sound from travelling past the two of them. “You can hold onto me for balance. Or I could hold you.”

Clayton breathes in, deep and slow. This thing between them, whatever it is, is still new, a barely-there bud just starting to poke its head from the ground. Every time Clayton thinks about it, he feels all at once untethered and as grounded as he’s ever been, and he’s still not sure what to do with that thought. So far it’s been between them and the other three and it’s been nobody else’s business, and the mention of holding onto Matthew in this place only makes him think of how many eyes there are, how many people. Holding onto people is a messy practice in his line of work. It’s a good way to get them torn away.

Matthew lets him go. “We don’t have to,” he says, hands falling. “It was just an offer.”

Clayton takes a deep breath. “Shut up,” he says, and grabs Matthew’s hand from his side.

There’s eyes on him now, he feels them. Matthew is staring at him with a little disbelief and no small amount of pride, and his eyes are sweet and dark and deep enough to drown in. He squeezes Clayton’s hand and nods, just once. “Shutting up,” he murmurs, and starts them slowly on another lap.

People are watching. Clayton is certain enough of that fact to keep himself wary, focusing only on the heat of Matthew’s hands through their gloves, the easy way he shifts his weight from foot to foot and guides them forward together one step at a time. Clayton’s feet slide rebelliously beneath him in stark contrast, and it’s only the steady presence beside him that keeps him vertical as they loop slowly around the lake, once, twice. He stumbles now and then, but every time Matthew catches him until eventually he starts to feel less like a dancing monkey and more like something vaguely competent.

“You’re doing well, Clay,” Matthew says when they complete a fifth lap, his voice a low rumble. “Just keep on takin it easy, that’s the way.”

“You’re crazy,” Clayton mutters again. “How long did it take you to figure this shit out?”

“A good while,” Matthew admits. “My sisters always had more skill with it than I did.”

Clayton’s eyes shoot up to Matthew’s face. “You got sisters?”

“I did.” It’s one of the saddest sentences he’s ever heard out of Matthew’s mouth, and it hangs heavy in the air between them. Clayton thinks of Matthew’s endless sympathy for Arabella’s loss, her need for closure, and suddenly there’s a lot that makes a horrible amount of sense.

“I’m sorry,” he says, a bit uselessly.

Matthew smiles, soft and warm and a little sad. “It’s been a long time. There’s no need for that anymore.”

“Still.” Clayton shifts his grip on Matthew’s hand to hold it tighter, but before he can finish his thought his skate catches on a chip in the ice. He has a split second to think something foul, and then his feet go out from under him and he’s weightless as he falls.

He collides with something a lot warmer and harder than he was expecting, and when he blinks off the surprise he understands. Matthew is beneath him, having apparently managed to angle himself in a way to cushion Clayton’s fall with his own body and seemingly at his own cost. He groans, and Clayton’s about to apologise when – of all things – Matthew starts to laugh. It’s a deep, beautiful thing, the bassy vibrations of it resonating from Matthew’s chest into Clayton’s, and when he looks down at the man under him his eyes are crinkled at the edges to the point they’ve nearly closed.

Clayton doesn’t believe in heaven. He doesn’t need to. Matthew Mason is as close as he ever cares to get.

“You’re heavier than you look,” Matthew manages when he finally stops laughing, his eyes bright as he looks up at Clayton.

“You’re gonna be covered in bruises come morning,” Clayton says, shaking his head.

Matthew smiles. “I’d say that’s a worthwhile cost.”

There’s snow in his hair from where he’d landed half in a drift, flakes of it caught between the strands. Clayton brushes it out carefully, and if there are people watching just now he can't be bothered to care. “You’re a fuckin’ idiot,” he murmurs, holding his face.

“I’m your idiot,” Matthew says with a smile.

God help him, Clayton can’t keep himself from smiling back. “Yeah, you are,” he says, then rolls off and drags himself into the snow.

Matthew pushes himself up onto one elbow, gets into a crouch still on the ice and fixes Clayton with a questioning look. “You done?”

“Gonna go warm up,” Clayton says, unstrapping the skates from his shoes. A moment later, Matthew joins him without a word, and the thing in his chest glows soft as any dream.

* * *

“Je-sus _Christ, _how are you always so _cold?_”

“I’ve been told it’s my disposition,” Clayton murmurs, and shifts his hands where they’re pressed against Matthew’s bare back in search of warmth. They’ve not really undressed, not much, but Clayton’s gloves are off and his hands are stuck under Matthew’s many shirts in a gesture that’s far more vindictive than enticing.

“You’re terrible,” Matthew mumbles, his voice hitching slightly as Clayton’s fingers shift again on his spine. His eyes are closed, his face screwed up like he’s in pain, but he’s not moving away so he can’t be too upset. “Don’t you have gloves?”

“I do.” Clayton raises an eyebrow and smiles faintly when Matthew winces. “Unfortunately, they’re cold too. Somebody thought skating was a good idea and so I kept planting my hands in snow banks and ice water.”

“Road to hell is paved with good intentions - _fuck!_” Clayton traces along Matthew’s shoulder blades with his frozen fingers and laughs, soft and low at the reaction it gets him. Matthew looks at him through narrowed eyes, but Clayton knows him too well to think he’s actually angry. “You are the _worst._ I’m never doing anything nice with you again.”

Clayton lets his hands still, the fingers splayed out against Matthew’s skin. “S’alright. This is nice enough,” he murmurs, and he means it in a way he hasn’t meant much in his life, honest and real and deep in his bones. If he could stay here forever, he would, just the pair of them in the dim sunlight through Matthew’s window over the church.

It’s a strange thing, wanting to be around like this.

He’s not sure how long they stay there, standing in silence, just knows that at some point he leans his head against Matthew’s shoulder and breathes in the closeness, the warm and familiar scent of him as good as any glass of whiskey.

He closes his eyes for a blink and wakes up to the low murmur of voices. The light’s changed, the sky outside the window now dyed a brilliant red with the setting sun. Clayton paws at the mattress beside him, and it’s empty but it’s warm, like the person lying there just left.

The door closes. There’s a few footsteps, then one side of the bed creaks as a hand finds its way into Clayton’s hair, gentle and warm. “You awake?” Matthew asks, low and soft.

Clayton opens one eye just enough to squint. “Sort of.”

Matthew brushes his fingers through Clayton’s hair. “That was Aloysius just now. Miriam’s apparently makin’ up a dinner of some kind. Sent Aly to see if we’d join them. You hungry?”

Clayton’s stomach grumbles in answer, and he swears he can feel Matthew’s laugh even before he hears it. “Wouldn’t be opposed,” he mumbles, half into the pillow. “Better her cooking than yours.” He sits up slowly and stretches, scrubbing at his eyes. “Everyone gonna be there?”

“Everyone we like, anyway.” Sitting next to him, Matthew catches Clayton’s hand as it falls and presses a kiss to his knuckles, gentle and slow. “You’re beautiful, you know that?” he asks, still holding on. “Absolutely gorgeous.”

_I’m lucky,_ Clayton thinks, and doesn’t know if he’s ever felt that way before. He rests his free hand against the side of Matthew’s face. “Anything good I am, it’s only ‘cause of you.”

“No,” Matthew says, “it isn’t,” and when he pulls him in for a kiss Clayton meets him mid-way.


End file.
